A Jeb With No Name

You piloted a centauroid mech, armored against the glass wind of the wasteland plains; you carried cargo pods packed with lichen spores and mortar pods of soil bacteria; you would walk a path across the waste, launching rounds to detonate and rain spores and bacteria across the sharp, glassy dirt. Each spot, with just a little luck for even the filthy rain off the high hills to come through before a glass-driving windstorm, would bind the dirt and spread, slowly, creating a crust of microscopic life holding the dirt in place, reducing the threat of a glass storm carrying out of the area to somewhere that it might shred through living things.